I think I will
by midnightregret
Summary: marcus/oliver slash. i would consider it kinda fluffy... marcus makes a rather rash decision...and oliver reacts in a rather unexpected way...
1. Control

series title: I think I will

chapter title: control (1/?)

author: midnightregret

rating: r

warning: s.l.a.s.h, language

disclaimer: not bleedin ours

a/n: here we go again!!

I think I will

Chapter One: Control

By regret

When my mind is done playing tricks on me

And the world is crashing

I think about it

I think I will

-Lucia, I Think I Will

            When it's late at night, and the air is too cool against my flesh, I can't help but think about it.

            Think about his warmth.

            Wish for it.

            Wish for it to cover me, everywhere…

            I know I shouldn't…

            Shouldn't think about his kewpie doll mouth.

                        It's too feminine for a boy so tall…

            Shouldn't think about his Quidditch-calloused hands.

                        How they would feel against my cock, enticing and tender-tough.

            Shouldn't think about his clear, unblemished skin.

                        The way purpled bruises would look against flesh not even the sun sees.

            Shouldn't think about *him*.

            But I do… 

Can't help myself…

No matter that I don't want to.

No matter that he'd never have me.

No matter that he'd make me hurt him.

No matter that I'd have to leave him.

Not that I wouldn't want to, of course.

Fuck.

Who'm I kidding??

Certainly not myself…

And nobody else matters…

Not when my thoughts stray to him.

Not when I'm so hard it hurts and there's nothing I can do about.

Not when there's nothing I *want* to do about it, because nothing could ever be as good his mouth on my dick, my hands in his hair, as he tries to eat me alive and swallow me whole.

As he enjoys it, every blissful second…

Damn, I really need to get a hobby.

~*~

//Get it together Flint! You are *not* loitering in the changing rooms, waiting for *him* to show up! You're _not_! It doesn't matter that you know he always shows up early, by a good fifteen minutes, to get changed and strategize. It doesn't matter, because you're doing something *important*… Now if you could only figure out what the hell that is before he gets here…//

"Flint."

Ooooooh *shit*!

It's all I can do not to moan when I hear him say my name.

His tone clipped, but, somehow, not *cold*.

Thank *GOD* for his bloody Gryffindor honor, else wise I'd *never* get to hear him say my name…

Though the jury's still out on whether or not that would be a good thing or a bad thing…

And PISS! 

I've still not found something to do. 

An excuse to still be here…

And an excuse to *stay*…

"Wood," I try my damndest to be impassive, but I'm not *quite* sure I succeed.

Especially not when he shoots me a covert glance from under lashes so long it should be a sin.

A glance that makes me whole body flush.

A glance that makes certain parts of my anatomy stand up and take notice.

Which is *really* not good, considering I've just realized that I'm not dressed.

That I'm standing about in only a thin pair of boxer shorts.

A thin pair of boxer shorts that will leave *nothing* to the imagination in all of about two seconds…

//Well, *there's* your excuse to stay, you prat. Spent so much time looking for one, and now you wish it'd *disappear*!!//

I can't help but laugh at the thought.

And I know he's looking at me again, but I can't bring myself to care.

I *must* be a masochist, or, at least, severely twisted…

"Alright there, Flint?"

His tone is curious and it sends another shiver down my spine.

No to mention short-circuiting my brain in favor of my cock…

"MmmHmm. Just *dandy* Wood, and yourself?" I ask, almost giddy (and *far* too aroused), as I pull on my trousers as quickly as can pass for normal.

Despite the fact that, with every layer of clothing added, my excuse to be near him, his warmth, his eyes, his voice, slides through my fingertips and mocks me with good-bye.

And Oliver?

He just eyes me suspiciously, not answering… 

As if he fears that I've laid some sort of trap…

As if answering could be the death of him (but you never know, it might)…

As if I've grown a third head or started spouting Shakespeare or *some*thing…

Though, I do suppose, that it's not often a Slytherin is borderline cordial, *or* giddy, when in the presence of a Gryffindor.

I'm sure as hell not.

But what can I say?

It's *him*, and I'm certifiable…

Pulling my sweater over my head I realize my 'excuse' is gone… 

Nothing for it now.

Which is probably a GOOD thing…

Probably…

Closing my locker I cast him a glance. 

And immediately I know I *really* shouldn't've…

Because he's now the one clad only in his boxers.

In *blue* boxers, with moving… Snoopy's? on them?

But… isn't that a *Muggle* cartoon?

Not that I know Muggle cartoons or anything and my GOD! he's looking at me checking out his package!

I MEAN HIS BOXERS!

Heh…

And Oliver, the damned unflappable bastard he is, just cocks an eyebrow and says, "They were a gift from my cousin. It was the funniest thing watching his eyes bug outta his head when I got the Snoopy's to start movin' about."

"Oh…"

Why the hell is he telling me this?

Why the hell do I care?

And just why the hell do I feel the urge to *laugh*??

What has gotten into me?

I really think I'm loosing my mind…

I've always been so in control…

But it seems like all day today I have been *grossly* out of sync…

As if I'm living a waking dream…

And if this is only a dream…

It doesn't matter that an awkward silence has befallen us…

It doesn't matter that I'm leaning into him, ever so slightly…

It doesn't matter that his breath catches as he unconsciously licks his lips…

It does, however, matter when he breaks the moment by giving his head a good shake…

It does, however, matter when he begins to glare at me in earnest, a slight flush to his cheeks…

And it does, however, matter when he says, "What the fuck are you playing at, Flint," his voice cold and rough and *distant*, breaking my dream into a thousand little pieces.

Pieces too small to pick back up again…

I'd never be able to find them all…

Goddamn him! 

How *dare* he!

It was *my* dream, NOT HIS!

"*This*," is all I manage to grind out as I lunge at him, hands catching him about the shoulders and shoving him back against the lockers, hard.

I've barely the time to register the look of shock on his face, the delicious little gasp that escapes those parted lips before I crush my mouth down upon his.

No finesse, no tenderness, just force and pressure and *need*.

And my GOD!

What am I doing??

And I didn't just whimper against his, still parted, lips.

And his hands didn't just come about my waist too pull me closer, but to push me away.

And he didn't just tremble and move his mouth against mine in what could be considered an encouraging manner.

And he *certainly* didn't try to follow my lips as I pulled away…

Didn't let loose a slight mewling sound as I jumped away from him, tripping over the bench.

Didn't stand there looking shocked, not angry or repulsed or violent, as I got up and ran out of the changing room.

No, most definitely not. 

That was all my imagination.

Wishful thinking and all…

*Shit*!

I left my Quidditch bag behind…

But there's no way in hell I'm going back for it.

The Gryffindor's are starting arrive now…

Oh, that would *not* have been good…

I'm going to be sick, I'm quite certain of it…

Fuck…

It's gonna be a looooooooong day.


	2. Hooked

All disclaimers in part one, but, just to refresh your memory, they're not ours.

Chapter Two

By Cai

I stand there, watching his retreating back and trying to grasp the last strands of my sanity.  
  
Marcus Flint just kissed me.  
  
He was staring at my...um...*boxers*...and then he *kissed* me...  
  
And...  
  
It was nice.  
  
I could feel his confusion...  
  
The tightness in his back...  
  
And he whimpered.  
  
So sweet.  
  
Marcus *Flint*...  
  
Sweet?  
  
I shake my head.  
  
What the hell was he thinking?  
  
I mean...  
  
The Weasley twins walk in.  
  
"Hullo, Oliver," they say in unison.  
  
"Hey, guys."  
  
"You alright, Oliver," George asks. "You're looking a bit flushed..."  
  
He trails off...  
  
Fred looks at him.  
  
They look at me.  
  
Then they look at the door.  
  
And I can *see* the light bulbs flicking on.  
  
Oh *shit*...  
  
"Was that," George begins.  
  
"Marcus Flint we saw leaving?" Fred finishes.  
  
I open my mouth to tell them to fuck off, but...  
  
Something in me...  
  
Just won't cooperate...  
  
And I smile at them, saying, "Oh yes. That was Mr. Flint."  
  
They gape at me.  
  
I laugh at them.  
  
"If you don't close your mouths soon, you'll get bugs in them."  
  
Then George points to the Quidditch bag laying on the floor near Marcus' locker.  
  
"Looks like he left in quite a hurry..."  
  
I grin.  
  
"Yup. Sure did."  
  
Fred looks at me and narrows his eyes.  
  
"What were you two *doing*, exactly?"  
  
I raise my eyebrows and say, "You have to ask?"  
  
Fred sits down hard.  
  
George sputters, "But you...you...*can't*...he's...the Captain of our biggest rival team..."  
  
Fred's just looking at the ceiling...  
  
He's shaking his head.  
  
Then he looks up at me and his eyes go round.  
  
"What the bloody *hell* are you wearing?!?"  
  
I look down.  
  
Fuck.  
  
"My Snoopy boxers."  
  
"Your *what*?"  
  
"Snoopy boxers."  
  
"Where did you get *those*???"  
  
"Muggle cousin."  
  
"Then why are they *moving*?"  
  
"Because I spelled them to."  
  
"Oliver...isn't that just a bit kinky...to have little white dogs running around in your pants?"  
  
"Hm...never thought about it like that...but at least this pair doesn't make noises..."  
  
George just stares.  
  
"What?" I ask, exasperated.  
  
"Make...*noises*...?"  
  
"Yeah, my Road Runner ones beep..."  
  
"Oh my God, Oliver. What is *wrong* with you?"  
  
I'm affronted.  
  
And I tell them so.  
  
"First you comment on my choice of snogging partner and my abilities to keep silent when it comes to our plays, and now you are saying my *under*wear is unsuitable? Fuck off. Both of you just *fuck* *off*."  
  
I turn, grab my practice robes and leave.  
  
I bump into Angelina in the corridor leading to the pitch, still not completely dressed...  
  
The buttons down the from on my Quidditch robes aren't fastened yet...  
  
Her eyes get quite large...  
  
And she says, "Whoo hoo, Ollie! *Seexxxy*! Love the boxers, baby!"  
  
I grimace at her.  
  
She laughs and continues on into the locker room.  
  
Before she closes the door behind her, I say, "Make sure to tell the twins not to screw with Flint's bag, I'll get it to him after practice."  
  
She looks at me for a moment then nods.  
  
"Thanks," I call over my shoulder as I finish with the buttons and get out onto the pitch.  
  
I open up the shed and grab my broom.  
  
Fuck fuck fuck.  
  
This is going to be a *long* day...


	3. Sleep Deprivation

all disclaimers still apply!

a/n – marcus flint is *offically* going crazy, kk??

I think I will 

Sleep Deprivation (3/?)

By regret

            I avoid heading to Potions until I can't put it off any longer.

            Until one more seconds delay would ensure tardiness *and* Professor Snape's wrath.

            Hell, to be honest, fear of that man's the only reason I'm going at all!

            I may be Slytherin, but that doesn't, in any way, guarantee his kindness or his leniency.

            To Slytherin as a whole, yes.

            To Slytherin as an individual, no.

            Unless, of course, you're Draco Malfoy, the sod.

            Slipping through the door the moment the clock ticks time, I keep my eyes studiously averted from the Gryffindor side of the room.

            So, of course, I immediately notice Fred and George snickering between the two of them and Oliver's stiff, face-front posture. 

            Hmm…

            I'm going to have to kill them.

            Then Oliver for telling them.

            And dear lord!

            That's my Quidditch bag at his feet!

            Maybe I should have risked Snape's wrath after all…

            Claimed sickness or… or… *some*thing!

            CHRIST! *screw* Snape, what am I going to tell *Oliver*?

            He'll probably give me some lecture on honesty and integrity and bloody fucking *bravery* as he returns my bag.

            And you know, it's not as if I lost it!

            He could have left it there!

            I did…

            ::yawn::

            Maybe I can claim sleep deprivation…

            It's true, after all.

            And, even if the sleep deprivation *is* his fault, I hear it can make you do crazy, uncharacteristic things.

            My God!

            That's it!!

            How could I have been so *stupid*?

            I haven't slept in three days!

            Of *course* that's what's wrong with me!

            It's nothing to do with Oliver or attraction and the like at all!

            I don't even have to chalk it up to hormones!

            Sleep Deprivation.

            Ah yes, that's it, my salvation!

            Upon this realization, Potions flies by.

            In fact, Potions is now over and I didn't even notice.

            Shit!

            I've still got to clean up my area…

            Ah, the drawbacks of autopilot!

            I guess Wood'll just have to wait until I'm done then, eh?

            Oh, see, he's *Wood* again!

            *And* I've not thought about his Snoopy-boxers for AT LEAST ten minutes.

            Life couldn't be better.

            OOO! Maybe I can even get back to being the evil shit he expects me to be!

            Maybe…

            But I probably shouldn't push it.

            I'm still on the mend, Sleep Deprivation and all.

            "Ah. Mr. Flint?" Snape's voice presses itself past my rampaging thoughts, the tone falsely solicitous.

            "Yes, Professor?"

            What the hell could he want?

            "Could you *please* explain to me why you're staring dumbly at your desk while Mr. Wood waits for you outside the door?"

            His tone keeps that air of polite helpfulness, but his mouth smirks and his eyes glare daggers of reproach and disdain.

            "What? OH! Sorry Professor, I…I hadn't noticed!"

            "Indeed," is all he says as I snatch up my book bag and race out of the room.

            Running headfirst into one Oliver Wood.

            Without even waiting for the apology I wasn't going to offer he rudely asks, "Are you avoiding me?"

            I snort.

            "No, why? Should I be?"

            He glares as I smirk and asks, " I dunno, should you be?"

            I can't help but snigger at his comeback.

            "Dear lord Wood! We're not first years anymore, can't you come up with something the *slightest* bit more witty?"

            His dark ale eyes flash, which isn't attractive in the least I might add, as he demands, "What the HELL is going on, Flint?"

            "I'm quite certain I don't know what you're talking about! Is that my Quidditch bag?" I ask it, knowing full well it is, and add, "May I have it back now please," before he can answer.

            Thrusting it at me he growls, "Sure."

            I've never noticed how much taller he is than me…

            And I'm not short, but Wood must be a good 6'3".

            And he's a *Scot*…

            Interesting.

            "Is there anything else?" I ask when he doesn't turn around and leave, though I can't imagine there is.

            "Yes."

            I arch an eyebrow in surprise and say, "Well then, do share."

            "Why did you kiss me this morning?"

            "Sleep Deprivation." I quip knowingly, without missing a beat.

            It's the truth, after all.

            Even if it hadn't been, Wood's sputtering would have been well worth the lie.

            The cross and confused look on his handsome face, priceless.

            Not that I find Oliver Wood attractive in the slightest.

            "WHAT?!"

            "I've not slept the last three nights. S-l-e-e-p. D-e-p-r-i-v-a-t-i-o-n. I've heard it makes you do all sorts of crazy things," I babble amicably. "Even kiss other Quidditch captains. Funny that, isn't it?"

            His face is hard, mouth set, as he mutters, "Indeed."

            But then his eyes flash in that entirely unattractive way of his, and he's using his unenviable height and completely unimpressive strength to back me into the nearest wall and oh dear.

            I think he's upset.

            With one, final, glowering look, he ducks his head and crushes his lips to mine.

            His broad, wondrously unsexy hands find purchase on my hips as he grinds against me, tongue slicking against my lips.

            //Well, this is rather…*nice*…// I think as I purr, opening under his skillful ministrations.

            Not that I'm enjoying this.

            Oh no, not in the slightest.

            He pulls back, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, to stare at me with something a lot like triumph gleaming in those clouded eyes.

            Shocked and breathless, "Oh *my*. Oliver! What's *you're* excuse??"


	4. Insanity and Tweety

Insanity and Tweedy  
  
I Think I Will Chpt 4  
  
By Cai  
  
***  
  
I'm kissing him.  
  
It's rough and hard and nothing like anything I ever thought I'd want.  
  
But he's so sexy.  
  
He's everything I ever thought I'd want.  
  
And he was babbling like an idiot.  
  
And it just made me want him more.  
  
He's opening his mouth and...  
  
God...  
  
Is he *purring*?  
  
Marcus Flint...  
  
No...  
  
Not quite a purr...  
  
But whatever the hell it is, he'd better not stop...  
  
He's *enjoying* this!  
  
I pull back.  
  
I'm breathing hard and I know I'm flushed.  
  
But I don't care.  
  
He enjoyed it.  
  
That's all that matters to my fuzzy brain right now.  
  
Then, "Oh *my*. Oliver! What's *you're* excuse??"  
  
Damn him to hell.  
  
Must he always ruin the mood?  
  
Not this time...  
  
"Insanity," I say, taking a firmer hold on his hips I bend my head once more and kiss him softly.  
  
I wonder if it devastates him as it does me.  
  
I wonder if he feels the shocks passing through me...  
  
I wonder if he understands...  
  
Suddenly, "I tawt I taw a puddy tat..."  
  
Fuck.  
  
He breaks away from me.  
  
"What the bloody *hell* was *that*?"  
  
Oh *fuck*.  
  
I can only manage one word, "Boxers."  
  
"They *speak*???"  
  
"It's Tweety."  
  
"I *know* who it is..."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"I...well...you're not the only one with Muggle cousins."  
  
He glares at me.  
  
"You watch Muggle cartoons?"  
  
He glares at me some more.  
  
He's too sexy when he's flustered.  
  
"I did! I *did* tee a puddy tat!"  
  
"Oh *god*! You've got Tweety running around in your pants..."  
  
He's laughing at me...  
  
"Marcus Flint, if you tell *any*one about my Tweety Boxers..."  
  
"Why the *hell* did you spell them to speak," he asks, a rather interesting gleam coming into his eyes.  
  
"I didn't mean to make them talk...it just kind of happened..."  
  
"Yeah...right..."  
  
"It's a side effect..."  
  
"Of *what*?"  
  
"This," I say, pressing against him.  
  
God, he feels good...  
  
I know he can feel my erection pressing against his own...  
  
His eyes go glassy.  
  
"Oh..."  
  
Mind firmly brought back to where we were before Tweety interrupted, I bend my head again and lick his lower lip...  
  
"Wait, stop..."  
  
He pushes me away...  
  
Shit.  
  
What the *fuck's* wrong with him?  
  
He looks like he's panicking...  
  
What, dearling, can't explain this away, too?  
  
"Oliver, I...I...just, no."  
  
And he turns, once again forgetting his Quidditch bag, and leaves me standing there.  
  
"Ahem..."  
  
Oh holy fucking shit on one goddamned big stick...  
  
I turn around.  
  
"Yes, Professor?"  
  
"I think it would be best if you didn't accost any more of my students in the halls Mr. Wood."  
  
I flush.  
  
"Yes, Professor Snape."  
  
Damn Flint and his stupid denial.  
  
Grabbing his Quidditch bag and my own I turn and flee.  
  
Anything is better than having to deal with Snape...  
  
~*~  
  
So I lied.  
  
Snape is probably easier to deal with than the Weasley twins...  
  
"Oi! Oll! Is that Flint's bag you've got there?" George calls out as I enter the Commons.  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"Thought you were giving it back to him," Fred says slyly.  
  
"I was...I mean, I did..."  
  
"So why do you still have it?"  
  
"Because he forgot it again..."  
  
George starts laughing.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You..." he points, "What are *doing* to the poor boy that makes him forget the damn thing every time you're together?"  
  
George is decidedly lucky that there isn't anyone else in the Commons right now.  
  
If there were, I would have no choice but to kill him.  
  
And then Fred would have to die as well.  
  
Which would mean the entire Weasley clan would be down on my head...  
  
Maybe I should kill them anyway...  
  
The Weasley's would put me out of my misery...  
  
"Shut *up* Weasley."  
  
Their eyes widen.  
  
"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"  
  
Their eyes widen some more.  
  
"Oliver--"  
  
"Don't you dare fucking ask, don't you *dare*..."  
  
"I did! I *did* tee a puddy tat!"  
  
"Gah!!!!!"  
  
Why can't my life ever be *simple*?  
  
Quidditch and a good fuck or two...  
  
Or three or four...  
  
Or a whole bunch more...  
  
Shit.  
  
I've never wanted anyone as much as I want Flint.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"Oll, I think that's what you need," George says, looking philosophically at the ceiling, "Just *fuck* him!"  
  
"Shut *UP*, Weasley!"  
  
"Fine!"  
  
"Good!"  
  
"Great!"  
  
"Shut it *now*!"  
  
"Arg!"  
  
"NOW!"  
  
"We're leaving."  
  
"Good riddance," I mutter as the portal closes.  
  
Left to my solitude...  
  
I brood.  
  
And I glance at my unsatisfied erection...  
  
And I think of how it would feel to have his lips around my flesh...  
  
His hands on my skin...  
  
His...  
  
No.  
  
Just...  
  
No.  
  
He doesn't want that.  
  
And I will not force it on him...  
  
But *damn*!  
  
What *does* he want? 


End file.
